The Limited Horizon
by Lee Savage
Summary: Post-war and post-Phantom Planet. They both have nowhere to go and nobody to turn to because of their past mistakes.
1. Blame

Author's note: This was going to be a oneshot, but this entire thing is about eighteen pages now, so here ya go. I don't remember if I address this in later chapters, but since Vlad is a consummate businessman he can read Chinese in this story, which is important an important language in international business relations. Conveniently, this is the written language in the Avatar world, so he isn't completely lost as to what people write.

Also, I understand that Vlad is Caucasian in a heavily Asian-influenced world, but it's not really seen as an immediate issue because he's mostly unnoticed and a lot of characters in the world look like they should be part of other nations (Ty Lee looks like Aang, some Fire Nation kids aren't pale-skinned with light, gold eyes) and I'm guessing now that the war is over the world will be slightly more open to children that aren't exclusively part of one national heritage, and therefore the people are less homogeneous in some parts (though in the Earth Kingdom there was diversity in appearances). Granted, Vlad is older, and this takes place about five years post-war, but it's not a stretch that he could use the excuse of being a bastard child for his unusual appearance.

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><p><strong>The Limited Horizon<strong>

Chapter One

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><p><em>"I thought you were a myth."<em>

Worn boots scrape against dirt. The night sky is foreboding, oppressing with its lack of stars. Vlad Masters does not mind the darkness, however, because anything short of a shroud above him in the night seems to mock his presence on modest ground.

_The ghost responds dryly, "Luckily, so do others who fumble through the progression of their short lives. I have the luxury of not hearing their demands."_

The Lower Ring of Ba Sing Se is a tawdry place, not that Vlad is unused to shady areas; he is a stranger here, stranger than most. Not counting his status as only partly human, he looks unusual, and Ba Sing Se in its entirety boast quite a few quacks. Even the current king once travelled the world with his pet bear despite his city being overtaken and desperately needing guidance in the form of leadership over several anti-Fire Nation revolts that ultimately failed.

_"I have a request."_

The streets are full of ruckus; dim shop lights cast the dirt paths in unbecoming grays and browns. The cacophony creates a sense of false security, for surely a land so crowded is safe enough to disappear in and rush through without a man being singled out.

_The cloaked ghost sighs. "Of course you do. The great Vlad Plasmius, scourge of the human world, has resorted to the whims of a stranger." If his tone wasn't so candid, then Vlad would've assumed his statement was some sort of taunting._

Vlad is clad in rags he stole from a mundane marketplace where those too indigent for housing crowd alongside shop walls and beg. The smell there is animal musk mingling with a scent like the one he found in his mother's old cabin—she had accidentally unplugged the refridgerator, and everything inside had gone rancid.

This world has been through a century-long war; they are told to believe that suffering and strife are over. And the brainwashing is supposed to be over. Clinging against the stench of perspiration and poverty, Vlad almost pities them as much as he does himself.

_"I'll do anything to take it all back."_

A once-proud, once-wealthy man, Vlad never thought he'd roam a street with an uncertain gait—quick to avoid the eyes of pickpockets, the calls of whores; the man is used to avoiding cameras, not miscreants. He's making his way to the more colorful part of the district, which is either a compliment or a means of wariness depending on your tastes.

_"Contrary to what you might have heard," the time ghost says, adjusting a gear on his staff, "my occupation does not fall under 'fairy godmother'."_

Luckily, the thieves there are often too inebriated to cause much trouble, but they are more raucous and stumble and collapse outside of the taverns like one-legged ostrich-horses (once again, the peculiarities of this world are lost on a man who's seen the Ghost Zone, and he's noticeably more perturbed by how normal several aspects of life in this society are).

_"There's nothing left for me here."_

But for all these people know, Vlad's name is Li—like almost everyone else, and this is not quite meant in the hyperbolic sense—and he works at a tea shop. He's never been outside of the city, he lives alone, and the details of his past are equivocated from the immense quantity of similar situations where refugees and loners trickle in without their pasts on their breasts.

_"And who is to blame for that?"_

For many in the Lower Circle, a job, no matter the credentials needed, is a source of pride because it provides income and a perceived purpose. If Vlad hadn't spent the time he did as a runaway and a hermit after a period—a merciless stint—with his thoughts in space, a black void that reflected all of his fears and concerns, he might complain about losing his prestige, his mansion, his dignity, everything that made him a man of worth. God, he hopes Maddie—tthe cat—found a suitable home.

_The ghost in the purple cloak continues, "This question is one you've answered wrongly your entire life. Look at yourself, at what you've let yourself become. Answer correctly, and I might consider assisting you. Everyone deserves a second chance, after all. It's simple, really. So, Vlad Masters, who is it?"_

The half-ghost is journeying to a theater. After all, what more does he have to do? His house is basically a shack, easy enough to clean, and he has no more work to do. Best to be entertained—no matter how meager the experience—to take his mind off of

He needs to shave his face.

The theater is bare with few rows. The walls are brown; the stage is small.

Vlad sits in the front row, one leg crossed over the other.

The air smells of cheap perfume. The women who partake in extravagant dancing routines and other talents are often seen as harlots; this is because many also seek monetary assistance through prostitution due to their weak pay—and therefore being a lady of the arts isn't seen as the most regal profession. Also, several of them strip naked in their performances—not that Vlad, being a gentleman, stares for too long.

Vlad's never paid for nightly companionship, but the half-ghost supposes the women with solely pecuniary mindsets who flocked closely to him are close enough to count. By the age of thirty-five, he rendered himself a reluctantly celibate man. Celibate because of his continuously undying love for a married woman—reluctant because he had and continues to have needs, after all. Such decisions, it seems, are often based in futile emotion or shoddy logic.

The crowd is less composed than he; many are here by mistake or boredom. They chatter when they are meant to be silent; they guffaw when they are meant to act solemn. The story of the play is nonsensical, the attire of the participants plain.

_Jack left him to die. Jack started all of this. Maddie refused to love me. As did Daniel. The world turned on him. All of his allies_—_gone, deserted._

No phantasmagorical array of colors.

The women are mostly unimpressive. Mostly. Not much presence. However, there is one Vlad notices again and again. A vixen with unwavering poise and calm, burning eyes, like a moribund phoenix that refuses to fall to ashes.

Vlad leans forward, his dour countenance and tense shoulders both easing down.

_Vlad Plasmius meets Clockwork's somber, imploring eyes, and replies, "I have no one to blame but myself."_


	2. The Turning of the Tides

Chapter Two

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><p><em>The trip to the asylum is not going well. <em>

_The ship is well-guarded and Azula is well-medicated. However, when Azula is brought to the deck because she meekly states that the heat stirring where she is, on top of the rocking of the ship, is making her sick, she manages to escape the guards by displaying a great deal of force they don't expect from a girl with such limp arms. She darts to one edge of the ship, turns and exclaims that she is going to jump into the ocean. Nobody moves because they fear she will jump if startled or provoked._

_Eventually, Sokka steps forward._

_"You can't stop me, peasant!" She hysterically recalls an instance where she spoke to one guard about the merciless tides—now whispering to herself and sobbing. Perhaps one with a questionable taste in comedy can say that the tides have turned. Azula laughs, which is considerably frightening since many do not consider those on the verge of suicide to be particularly jovial._

_"'Kay, look. The evil princess I knew would never do this." Why should this boy even care if she dies? Why should any of them care? They all betrayed her, abandoned her, deserted her. They all left._

_"And how is that?" Azula replies, her eyes wild._

_"Because," Sokka replies, "it's, um, very unroyal-like?"_

_Yes, this will be a long day._

Azula walks into the dim street, unperturbed at the darkness.

The Water Tribesman was right; in regards to killing herself, she would've never done that. She was too proud—but now, the future is too bleak. She has nobody. Back then, it didn't matter. Now, she strides forth with aplomb, but she does so with no purpose.

"Madam," a man's voice says.

"Yes?" She turns, blocking out the voices of the other women outside of the theater. Azula does not consider them to be her friends, but they are convivial enough to the point that the former princess is not rebarbative toward them.

"I enjoyed your performance." The man's voice is strange, his face partially concealed. He isn't leering; his posture is relaxed, unintimidating.

With her voice crisp and tone refined, visage placid, she says, "Thank you."

Vlad inclines his head.

"Miss."

The young woman tilts her head to show she's listening. Her brows are knitted tightly toward the center of her forehead.

"I mean nothing uncouth, but may I ask your name?"

_"Granddaughter," Roku says, "I can only do so much."_

"Lan," she replies. The word rings hollow, and Azula quickly walks away as to avoid any further conversation with a stranger she has no intention on knowing.


	3. The Fox Maiden

Chapter Three

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><p>At first, Azula did not enjoy being shipped away after she left the asylum. She resided in her room in the palace for less than a day before she abandoned her home for good. There had been no use in prolonging the stint before her departure. After all, any forms of companionship were severed. Who did she have to greet her home or wish her well?<p>

That was fine enough though.

Then again, the young woman never enjoyed doing much under her brother's discretion. After she was "healed," Firelord Zuko gave her an ultimatum: imprisonment or banishment. She would live like her father in prison or live like her mother in exile. Either way, she would be stripped of her name.

Azula smirked and declared, "You're too kind, Zuzu." The young woman would rather be dead than be cowed and defeated, but she was no longer the imperious leader who conquered Ba Sing Se through manipulation and cunning.

As she was taken to her ship—a rather plain, unassuming ride—Azula was guarded, and the former princess walked away from her home with her head high, but none of her family members or former friends accompanied her, except for Zuko. Not even Uncle arrived. The streets were empty, as it was an affair that transpired in the very early morning—before the birds had a chance to take to the trees and chirp their happy tunes.

The woman shrugged off her feelings of disdain, repulsion toward her condition. Azula pondered if Zuko even lost sleep over deciding her fate. She doubted it, since the firebending prodigy would have simply incarcerated her brother if she'd been in his place, but she hoped his childhood weakness returned and made him ill to the bones.

"Goodbye, brother," Azula said.

Zuko met her gaze evenly with straightened shoulders and pronounced resolve. "Goodbye, _sister_."

"I see I am not worthy of Uncle's presence," She brushed imaginary lint off of the shoulder of her robe. "Is he too busy running his tacky little tea shop?"

"Azula," Suddenly, her brother's visage was overcome with an emotion that Azula believes is sorrow, something she grew begrudgingly acquainted with during her stay at the mental hospital. "Uncle died a few weeks ago."

As his composure crumpled, Azula reflected. They would both be losing the only family they had left, but Zuko was a political leader, and therefore he had to do what sated his advisors.

Azula thought the people of Ba Sing Se would recognize her, but they didn't. No longer languishing, she was a commoner. The people know she's Fire Nation, and this should warrant many glares and off-color remarks, but Ba Sing Se has grown more diverse in a short period of time.

Only non-benders are increasingly discriminated against now that the Fire Nation isn't an enemy. Merchants who cannot fend criminals off are taken advantage of and families with few benders are mocked as degenerates; even though they are a large community, it is not an uncommon belief that non-benders are somehow a result of bad breeding or dirty blood. After all, people will say, if the spirits are the cause of bending, what do those without the ability lack in order to be considered unworthy of such powers?

She hasn't firebended in so long; honestly, she is wary of what might transpire.

Lan. Azula is a name derived from royalty. Her grandfather. Admittedly, she isn't suited for it; Azula no longer holds strong opinions on her lineage or her purpose. Better not to dwell on her failure, or she might be driven insane again.

Azula recalls less-than-pleasant tales on library scrolls in the shelves of the academy she attended as a young girl. When she was younger, the woman was still as astute and read when she wasn't training or observing the mannerisms of her classmates; when she did so, she surveyed the technicalities: structure; method; purpose. She was once told by a peer that she'd make a decent instructor because of her constant scrutinizing. Azula kindly showed the girl what she thought of that statement by burning all of the reading material the imbecile needed for class. After all, besides being a princess (teaching is indeed a valuable profession in the Fire Nation, but the Fire Nation princess planned to order an army, not some attention-deficient, energy-addled children), Azula never did as mediocre as "decent."

Some of these scrolls contained stories—legends, fables, myths.

She will never forget the fox-maiden. The fox-maiden is anything but a maiden and more than miserly. She is a pernicious spirit. Truly a fox, often roaming untamed forests or sullen bogs, she transforms into a beautiful woman; she seduces men of power—kings, princes.

Becoming a scarlet-swathed, pearl-riddled, golden-tongued concubine, she grows vain and consumed by attention from her lovers—often making other mistresses of the harems neglected. The fox-maiden further lures these affluent men into committing atrocities to their other women—_sometimes_ subtle, but ultimately leading to grisly deaths. Once, the fox-maiden cajoled an emperor into throwing the rest of his harem into a pit that contained a swarm of vicious bees; they remained trapped there until they perished awhile later. The former princess fondly thinks of many other ways victims of this spirit died.

The fox-maiden cannot look into a mirror, one of her weaknesses, because it reveals her true form. As Azula ponders, she smoothes her hair and smirks bitterly. In retrospect, the firebender supposes that she was prone as a child to glancing over the morals or consequences of these tales.

In the end, loneliness and lightning are what can kill the fox-maiden; when she finds herself no longer pursued by wanton or lovesick suitors, she climbs atop a colossal mountain, where she will weep. If it is raining, and lightning strikers the fox-maiden, then she will turn to stone.


End file.
